


5-Year Plan

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, more crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 14:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Jim’s decided he’s going to become Mycroft’s second husband.





	5-Year Plan

Oh, they’ve flirted. 

 

Granted, much of it is through text, what with their locations being confidential, their positions oppositional, and security the utmost concern.

 

So when Jim sidles up to Mycroft in a museum, incognito and technically off the clock, and sees his hands on the railing, he’s stunned.

 

There’s a golden band encircled around Mycroft Holmes’s fourth finger.

 

It's a wedding ring. 

 

Jim cranes his head around to get a better look at is, as close as he can short of literally picking up the man’s hand and bringing it to eye level. Now when did  _ this _ happen? In the  _ four months _ he hadn't seen him in person? Or had it been in the works long before that?   
  


Jim’s brain  _ stutters _ as he tries to formulate the question. Who? And  _ why? _ He thought they  _ had _ something - no, he’s not going to say that.

 

“Didn’t even bother sending me an invitation?” Jim asks, dry.

 

Mycroft glances at him, expression slightly bemused. A moment later he catches on, and rolls his eyes.

 

“At the  _ palace?” _ Mycroft asks. “Jim, be serious.”

 

Jim valiantly refrains from pouting, subsequently ruining the effect by stomping off. 

 

.

 

Sure, they'd never discussed being  _ exclusive, _ or anything so inane. 

 

But Mycroft, with all his little quirks like loyalty and fidelity and other annoying but forgivable flaws of character, is someone Jim assumes would approach marriage with monogamy. 

 

Even if, for whatever reason, it was a front, perhaps a lavender marriage, though there really was no purpose to one in this day and age, Mycroft surely would commit to keeping up appearances.

 

But, Jim thinks, no harm in reminding him of what he can’t have, right?

 

He shows up at a gala about a week later, hosted just a stone’s throw from the  _ palace _ . Mycroft’s name is on the guest list, as is many a foreign dignitary he is supposedly here to rub elbows with. Jim wonders if Mycroft’s new  _ spouse _ is around. 

 

Admittedly, Jim does not know who this is. Mycroft's files are sealed and  _ very _ hard to get into. Still, he has  _ some  _ idea. Mycroft gets chummy with few people, and fewer still who would be welcomed into a reception at the palace.

 

Jim grips the champagne flute in hand so hard his knuckles start to turn white. He sets it down.

 

Then he arranges himself on a stool by the bar, where the lighting is most favorable, and watches the crowd.

 

“Jim?”

 

Jim’s eyes flick up to see Mycroft frowning and looking very pretty in a tux.

 

He goes for blase, ignoring Mycroft for another moment while feigning interest in a dancing couple, before turning back to him.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jim says.

 

“Not particularly.” Mycroft’s tone is clipped, and he downs his drink. “Part and parcel of my trade. Not so much  _ your's _ however.”

 

Jim just gives him a small smile.

 

“Before you have me thrown out,  I'll have you know I was properly invited.” A lie. “I'm a plus-one.” Mycroft frowns, and Jim tries very hard not to sing out  _ bingo _ .

 

Mycroft sighs, loudly enough that Jim worries for how much he's drank so early into the function, and bids Jim goodbye with a nod.

 

“Well, enjoy, then,” he says easily, before spinning on his heel to head back into the fray.

 

Jim narrows his eyes.

 

“Didn't even ask me to dance.”

 

.

 

Jim slams his empty tumblr onto the bar and the clever woman behind the pub counter readies yet another drink for him.

 

“Bad day, honey?” she asks.

 

He scowls. “Saw my ex.”

 

Her expression's sympathetic. 

 

“Want me to hold your phone?”

 

“What?” he twists up his face at her.

 

“So you don't drunk dial him. Ask him to come over late at night when you're not in your right mind, that sort of thing.”

 

Jim shakes his head.

 

“He's getting married,” he says, and she sucks in air through her teeth.

 

He nods in commiseration. 

 

“To some floozy. I'm sure she just wants him for his money.” Well that he’s just making up, but it  _ seems  _ like the kind of things you told bartenders while commiserating.

 

She thinks it over, polishing a glass in hand, then gives him a conspiratorial look.

 

“You going to the wedding?”

 

He gives her a  _ duh  _ look, and gestures to the glass. In for a penny in for a pound. Her smile only widens and she says, 

 

“So bring someone.”

 

Jim snorts.

 

“He's getting  _ married _ , I hardly think he'll get jealous seeing that I'm  _ dating _ .”

 

“Might be, depending on  _ who _ you're dating.”

 

Jim thinks about this, and then nods. Nodding still, he leaves a few bills on the bar and collects his jacket, still nodding as he points back to her on his way out.

 

.

 

Thing is, why  _ not _ Jim? 

 

They had - common interests (Sherlock) and, and shared history! (Also Sherlock, perhaps) Plus  _ bounds _ of sexual chemistry! (According to Jim, but when is he ever  _ wrong _ about these things?)

 

Meaning: If Mycroft was going to marry anyone, it might as well be Jim.

 

That does it, Jim thinks, snapping his laptop shut, plan in hand.

 

By death or divorce, Jim’s going to take care of this “married” situation of Mycroft’s. 

 

.

 

The first thing to do, Jim has decided, is to drive a wedge between the current relationship.

 

He cards his fingers through the equerry’s hair. Jim takes a step back, eyes never leaving Harry’s, and Harry follows, as if hypnotized. 

 

Once tucked away in the linen closet, out of the hallway, Jim surges up to kiss the taller man and they practically fall into each other, the other scrambling to get the door closed behind him.

 

He leaves a crack, just as Jim intended.

 

And then Jim hears the footsteps. He lets out a moan.

 

Mycroft Holmes opens the closet door to find Jim Moriarty with his arms and legs wrapped around a - colleague (note to self: check if he’s compromised. Later. Much later). 

 

It’s more than Mycroft wants to see on a Wednesday morning, much less deal with.

 

He slowly closes the door.

 

.

 

So the fact that Jim doesn’t technically know who Mycroft is technically married to is just that - a  _ technicality. _

 

He straightens his tie, clears his throat, and knocks on the door before him, giant bouquet of roses in hand.

 

It’s several moments before the door opens, but it  _ does _ open, because Jim’s not an idiot, he’s done his research and he knows Andrea is home - alone, too, and typically comes out to get the morning paper around this time anyway.

 

Lo and behold, Andrea opens the door, still in a dressing gown, hair a radiant halo around her face (sans makeup on an early Sunday morning), and gives him a flat look.

 

She holds out her hand, and he presents the bouquet. 

 

She doesn’t even spare a glance, hand still outstretched.

 

Jim looks down at it, and glares at the ring.

 

She raises an eyebrow.

 

He turns around and hurls the morning paper as far down the street as he can, before turning on his heel and storming off, not least of all before he shoves the roses down a garbage bin.

 

.

 

Okay, take two. 

 

Things didn’t exactly go as planned the first time.

 

He smartly intercepts Andrea en route this time, and it’s a whole block before she looks up from her BlackBerry having realized the driver isn’t taking her to Mycroft’s office as per usual.

 

The partition rolls down and Jim smiles at her from the rear view mirror.

 

“Surprise!” he says. “I’m thinking a romantic getaway to Paris. Maybe Thailand if we’re feeling a bit tropical.”

 

“I’m going to dial my boss now,” Andrea replies without missing a beat.

 

_ “Good. _ ”

 

.

 

Bill clears his throat, folds his hands, unfolds them, and then looks up again at one of the world’s most infamous criminals. 

 

Moriarty has no record - he has a file, yes, and one meticulously put together by Mycroft Holmes, but it was for intelligence purposes, not something they would ever submit as evidence in court.

 

Now this man, this “consulting criminal” who was supposedly the architect of thousands of crimes and at least as many headaches, had gone and broke into the Tower of London on camera and made a fool of himself with the crown jewels. He can still hear the tinny tapes of him yelling “HOW’S THIS FOR PALACE DRESS CODE, HOLMES?”, whatever that meant. He assumes it’s to do with the feud with the younger brother, Sherlock, whose name he then scratched into the glass. 

 

“Mr. Moriarty,” Bill says. He feels his palms start to sweat. “If you don’t cooperate, Mr. Holmes will make sure you’re not around to see next week.”

 

Jim Moriarty smirks to himself like he’s just thought of something hilarious, and then gives Bill a pitying look.

 

“Oh please, in five years, I guarantee you, I’ll be  _ Mr. Holmes’s _ second husband.”

 

Bill is thrown. He hadn’t known Mr. Holmes was married. He shoots the one-way window a worried look, then pulls his gaze away knowing he’s just compromised the interrogation.

 

“What. um. What happened to Mr. Holmes’s first husband?” Bill is sweating.

 

Jim Moriarty sits back, smiling like a cat who’s got the canary.

 

“Nothing you can prove.”

 

.

 

The door opens with a light click, and Jim looks Mycroft Holmes up and down, and tsks.

 

Mycroft’s face is unreadable as he crosses the room to take the seat opposite Jim. And suddenly, under his intense scrutiny, Jim feels he has to look away. 

 

“Jim.” Jim looks up, glares, more like, and sees Mycroft giving him a funny look. 

 

“I’m not married,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing out an alien language.

 

What.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m not married,” he says again, much quicker, almost defensive this time.

 

Jim points at his ring, with both hands.

 

“What’s that, then?” he snaps.

 

“It’s a ring,” Mycroft answers, incredulous.

 

“Why are you wearing it?”

 

“What does it matter, why am I wearing a ring?”

 

Jim is about to tear out his hair.

 

“You’re wearing a  _ wedding ring _ ,” he says through gritted teeth.

 

Mycroft looks at him, eyes wide.

 

“It’s a ring, but not a wedding ring.”

 

Jim stares back, then stares at the ring again, then back at Mycroft’s face.

 

“Oh you dumb Bond fanboy, you,” he groans, and Mycroft looks just sheepish enough that it probably  _ is _ some stupid experimental gadget. Jim is mortified. He can’t believe he almost married this  _ nerd _ . 

 

Mycroft clears his throat. 

 

“And what exactly were you hoping to get out of this?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 

Jim shrugs. “Have an affair with your spouse, maybe have an affair with your relationship counselor, have an affair with your wife or husband’s divorce lawyer, just the usual.”

 

“The usual.”

 

“Yeah, and if it didn’t seem like you would be divorced in five years, I dunno. Auto accident.”

 

Mycroft stares like he’s stupid.

 

“Really?” His voice drips sarcasm. 

 

“Hey.”

 

“ _ Auto accident? _ And between the two of us  _ I’m _ the silly one?”

 

“ _ Hey. _ ”

 

“Good god, Jim. You’re lucky you went into consulting so early in your career. You may be adept at advising, but you certainly have limited foresight when it comes to getting into the meat of it.”

 

Jim shifts his gaze, fidgets. 

 

“I don’t like getting my hands dirty,” he says. “So will you uncuff me now?”

 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, eyeing the cuffs. 

 

“I’ve half a mind to leave you in them,” he mutters. “You’ll apologize to Anthea as well.”

 

“Eh.”

 

.

 

Jim closes the car door, and then spins around, checking himself once more in the reflection in the car’s darkened window. 

 

He straightens his already immaculately tailored and worn suit. He brushes back a nonexistent stray strand of hair. He clears his throat, then peers over his shoulder up the grand staircase covered in red carpet.

 

Far from empty, there’s already a throng of people gathered on the steps heading in. Still, it’s not difficult to spot Mycroft greeting royalty at the top of the stairs. They make eye contact, briefly, and then Jim falls in line with the people making thing way up.

 

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft hisses under his breath, mouth still smiling as he nods toward passersby, at odds with his clearly less than happy mood.

 

Jim touches his elbow as he passes, lingering just before stepping inside.

 

“Like I said, Holmes,” Jim says, voice silky. “I’ve a five-year plan, and whether you’re presently married or not doesn’t change a thing. I intend to see my plans through.”

 

At Mycroft’s quietly mortified response, Jim smiles.

 

“See you inside, hun.”


End file.
